BLACKFISH
EMILY JOHNSON
There
is a fish that lives in very deep, very cold rivers. Their taste is strong,
pungent, oily. They are caught in weighted traps that fall, then rest somewhere
near the muddy bottom. The traps are left for days. In winter, when the tops of
rivers freeze, blackfish push their plump bellies down into the mud, as far
from the ice as they can get. They wait. They are never seen swimming in their
rivers. They don't jump up into the air to break their egg sacks like salmon or
to catch bugs like trout. People know they are there because they know they are
there.
When
blackfish are hauled up in traps, they are motionless and then they are stored
in buckets. 3, 5, 6, 7 blackfish can lay in the bottom of an average bucket.
They lay there, belly down. They don't flop, they don't roll off, heaving, to
one side. They don't fight the air. They press their plump bellies down on the
bottom of the bucket, holding themselves in the fish kind of upright. I imagine
that they imagine the top of the bucket covered with ice, the bottom covered
with mud.
Blackfish
can lay in the bottom of a bucket, sitting on a porch for months; no water, no
mud, no food, no fish air. They lay there, on their bellies, still. But when
brought back to their river, when held in their very deep, very cold water,
when gently primed in the cups of two human hands, the blackfish heaves, its
sides pulse, its head moves from side to side, and then, it swims away.
My
cousin told me about the time he tried studying blackfish for the science fair
at school. It was spring. He put his blackfish trap down into the river and
waited two days. He caught four blackfish. He placed these in his bucket which
he placed in the back mud room of the house near the dog food. He had to wait
until fall.
I
said you can eat blackfish, that their taste is strong, pungent, oily. You can,
but you eat them raw, and you eat them head in. Head in your mouth. It's as if
you eat the blackfish while, at the same time, the blackfish swims to your
belly.
My
cousin didn't eat his spring caught blackfish. He wanted to study them. To open
them. To see the guts, the bones that seem to dissolve with spit. He imagined
blood and a heart and lungs. He wanted to pin the blackfish open, draw a
picture, label parts, find out how they sit themselves upright in the bottom of
buckets, why they never surface their rivers, how they come to life after
months pressed into mud. He took one blackfish and held it in his hand. He
didn't wake it. He took a knife, and he cut it. From anus to head, up the
belly. But he didn't see lungs or guts or blood. He held the knife in his right
hand, the blackfish in his left, but after the cut, he couldn't hold onto the
fish. It dissolved in his hand, became a kind of thick, black, liquid goo. He
tried to stop it from slipping between his fingers, but the blackfish goo got
heavier as it dripped toward the floor and the whole mess of it slid off his
palm, gathering in a puddle at his feet.
He
tried another.
Same
thing.
"If
you cannot cut a blackfish open to look at its insides, can you study its
insides?" he asked me.
But
he didn't give me time to answer.
Instead,
he continued, "I couldn't cut another. I ate my last two blackfish. And I
ate the blackfish that were sitting upright in my father's bucket, the ones he
caught for feasting in late winter. Emily, I ate 5 blackfish," he said.
"Good
god," I said.
No
one eats 5 blackfish.
You
eat ONE, for health, but my cousin thought that if he ate alot of blackfish he
could find out about the blackfish soul. About what they dream during the ice
over. About their survival through the harshest conditions; laying in buckets
in homes, away from the deep, cold habitat of river and mud. About their swim
down our throats. He thought there was something the blackfish could teach him
that he could, maybe, in turn, teach his family and friends and teacher at
school.
But
the blackfish made him puke. It poured out of his mouth, swam over his tongue,
that same thick, black liquid goo he felt slipping through his fingers. It
pulled out of him, leaving him feeling cleaner than before, but with a horrible
taste in his mouth. He lay down, belly pressed to the floor. He couldn't move,
so he fell asleep.
He
told me, "The blackfish are unstudyable. They exist to live in rivers, and
buckets, and bellies. You cannot cut a blackfish. Please, do not try. You
cannot eat too many. Trust me, don't. But, when the blackfish enters your
dreams, you hold still and listen to what it says. It will tell you when to
swim, head first into danger, it will tell you when to press your belly down
wherever you are, and rest. It will tell you how to survive this world. It will
tell you its secrets."